If I should cry br Would the wind take my message home? br My hands are sore from tilling the ground br My voice is coarse from shouting in the sun br My back is bent and whip marks fresh br I paint a picture of a sordid grotesque shape br My name is Africa, Humbled, subdued and proud br I’ve lost my ways, my trees, and my pot br Electricity churches and mosques take over br I’ve lost my virginity and naivety br Now am wizened way before my years. br br If I should cry br I hope the wind carries my message br The message of my travails, br My body is marked from indirect whipping br My hands are sore from holding the biro for too long br My back bent from long hours of work br I paint a picture of fake Hollywood residents br I cry at night silently from my impotence, br Emasculated, I result to greed and cheat, br But silently, heart aching I cry of my torments, br Hoping the air, the wind, the water will convey my message.